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SOOTCII WO EDS, 



THE 



BAPTEESEMENT 0' THE BAIRN, 



J^NJD OTHER rOElMS. 



ROBERT LEIGHTOK 



Cc. 



.»^v*^' r^. 



"^''y^^j^ 



NEW YORK: 

GEORGE ROUTLEDGE & SONS, 

41G BROOME STREET. 
1873. 






Poole & Maclauchlan, Peintees and Bookbinders, 
New York. 



(Eiiitarictl |}rc|ator| ftote. 



Of the following Immoroiis Poems, the first was 
delivered by the Author at an English social 
gathering, in lieu of a speech, and by way of 
enhancing the general entertainment. The second 
was written with a view to the Penny Readings now 
so popular throughout the country. Both have been 
so enthusiastically received at these meetings for the 
people, whereA^er they have been delivered, that their 
publication in a convenient form seems a matter of 
course. The stories in both have, as paragi-aphs, 
gone the round of the newspapers. But there they 
were mere skeletons. Here they will be found in 
full organic development and dramatic vitality. 
The very general quotation of " Scotch Words " 
by both the American and the British press, 
is sufficient evidence of its quality. Of the 
" Bapteesement o' the Bairn," an admirer takes 
leave to say — what the Author himself never 
would say, nor, haply (if he could help it), 
allow here to be said — that nothing in the form of 
Scottish satirical humour more genuinely graphic 
and characteristic has appeared since the days of 
Burns. 



^r0ttlr iiUrbs* 



They speak in liddles north beyond the Tweed. 
Tlie plain, pure English they can deftly read ; 
Yet when without the book they come to sf)eak, 
Their liuijo seems half Enoiish and half Greek. 

Their jaws are chaftsj their hands, when closed, are 

neives y 
Their bread's not cut in slices, but in shelves y 
Their armpits are their oxters y palms are luifs y 
Their men are chlelds / their timid fools are cuiffs y 
Their lads are ccdlants, and their women kinnners / 
Good lasses denty queans, and bad ones limmers. 
They thole when they endure, scart when they scratch ; 
And when they give a sample it's a swatch. 
Scolding isjli/tin', and a long palaver 
Is nothins: but a blether or a haver. 



G SCOTCH WORDS. 

Tliis room they call tlie hutt, and that the hen* 
And what they do not know they dinna ken. 
On keen cold days they say the wind hlaws snell. 
And when they wipe their nose they dicht their 

hyhe; 
And they have words that Johnson could not spell, 
As rimjjli'm, which means — anything you like : 
While some, though purely English, and well known, 
Have yet a Scottish meaning of their own : — 
To pri(/s to plead, beat down a thing in cost ; 
To coff'^s to purchase, and a cough's a host^' 
To crack is to converse ; the lift's the sky ; 
And hairns are said to greet when children cry. 
When lost, folk never ask the way they want — 
They speir the gate; and when they yawn they gaunt. 
Beetle with them is clock; a flame's a loive; 
Tlieir straw is strae; chaff ca;iiff, and hollow liowe; 
A piclde means a few ; muckle is big ; 
And a piece of crockeryware is called nj^ig- 

Speaking of pigs — when Lady Delacour 
Was on her celebrated Scottish tour. 
One night she made her quarters at the " Crown," 
The head inn of a well-known county town. 



SCOTCH WORDS. i 

The chambermaid, on lighting her to bed, 
Before withdrawing, curtsied low, and said — 

^' This nicht is cauld, my leddy, wad ye please, 
To hae a pig i' the bed to warm your taes ? " 

" A pig in bed to tease ! What's that you say ? 
You are impertinent — away, away ! " 

" Me impudent ! no, mem — I meant nae harm, 
But just the greybeard pig to keep ye warm." 

" Insolent hussy, to confront me so ! 

This very instant shall your mistress know. 

The bell — there's none, of course — go, send her here.' 

" My mistress, mem, I dinna need to fear ; 
In sooth, it was hersel' that bade me s])eir. 
Nae insult, mem ; we tliocht ye w^ad be gled, 
On this cauld nicht, to hae a pig i' the bed." 

" Stay, girl ; your words are strangely out of place, 
And yet I see no insult in your face. 
Is it a custom in your country, then. 
For ladies to have pigs in bed wi' tliem ? " 



8 SCOTCH WORDS. 

" Oil, qiTite a custom wi' tlie gentles, mem — 
Wi' gentle ladies, ay, and gentle men ; 
And, troth, if single, tliey wad sairly miss 
Their liet pig on a canldrif nicht like this." 

" I've seen strange countries — but this surely beats 
Their rudest makeshift for a warming-pan. 
Suppose, my girl, I should adopt your plan. 
You would not put the pig between the sheets ? " 

'' Surely, my leddy, and nae itherwhere : 

Please, mem, ye'll find it do the maist guid there." 

" Fie, fie, 'twould dirty them, and if I keep 
In fear of that, 3'ou know, I shall not sleep." 

'' Ye'll sleep far better, mem. Tak my advice ; 

The nicht blaws snell — the sheets are cauld as ice ; 

I'll fetch ye up a fine, warm, cozy pig ; 

I'll mak' ye sae comfortable and trig, 

Wi' coortains, blankets, every kind o' hap, 

And warrant ye to sleep as soond's a tap. 

As for the fylin' o' the sheets — dear me, 

The pig's as clean outside as pig can be. 



SCOTCH WORDS. I 

A weel-closed mootli's eneucli for itlier folk, 
But if ye like, I'll put it in a poke." 

" But, Effie — that's your name, I think you said — 
Do you yourself, now, take a pig to bed ? " 

"Ell ! na, mem, pigs are only for the great, 
AVha lie on feather beds, and sit up late. 
Feathers and pigs are no for puir rift-raff — 
Me and my neiber lassie lies on cauff." 

" What's that — a calf ! If I your sense can gather, 
You and the other lassie sleep together — 
Two in a bed, and with the calf between : 
That, I suppose, my girl, is what you mean ? " 

" Na, na, my leddy — 'od ye're jokin' noo — 
"We sleep thegither, that is very true — 
But nocht between us : wi' our claes all aft*, 
Except our sarks, we lie upon the caufi"." 

" Well, well, my girl ! I am surprised to hear 
That we of English habits live so near 



10 SCOTCH WORDS. 

Such barbarous customs. — Effie, you may go : 
As for the pig, I thank you, but — no, no — 
Ha, ha ! good night — excuse me if I laugh — • 
I'd rather be without both pig and calf." 

On the return of Lady Delacour, 
She wrote a book about her northern tour, 
Wherein the facts are graphically told, 
That Scottish gentlefolks, when nights are cold, 
Take into bed fat pigs to keep them warm ; 
Willie common folk, who share their beds in halves- 
Denied the richer comforts of the farm — 
Can only warm their sheets with lean, cheap calves. 



€\)t fo^immtut n' tjit fmn. 



Od, Andra, man ! I doot ye may be wrang 
To keep the bairn's bapteesement aff sae lang. 
Supposin' the fivver, or some quick mischance, 
Or even the kinkhost, whup it aff at once 
To fire and brimstane, in the black domains 
Of nnbelievers and nnchristen'd weans- — 
I'm sure ye never could forgie yoursel', 
Or cock your head in Heaven, wi' it in hell. 

Weesht, Meggie, weesht ! name not the wicked 
place, 
I ken I'm wrang, but Heaven will grant us grace. 
I havena been unmindfu' o' the bairn, 
Na, thocht on't till my bowels begin to yearn. 
But, woman, to my sorrow, I have found 
Our minister is anything but sound ; 



12 THE BAPTEESEMENT o' THE BAIRN. 

I'd sooner break the half o' the commands 

Than trust a bairn's ba2)teesement in his hands. 

I wadna say our minister's depraved ; 

In fact, in all respects he's weel behaved : 

He veesits the haill pairish, rich and puir ; 

A worthier man, in warldly ways, I'm sure 

We couldna hae ; but, och ! wae's me, wae's me ! 

In doctrine points his head is all agley. 

Wi' him there's no Elect — all are the same ; 

An honest heart, and conduct free frae blame, 

He thinks mair likely, in the hour o' death, 

To comfort ane than a' your Bible faith : 

And e'en the Atonement, woman, he lichtlies so, 

It's doubtfu' whether he believes't or no ! 

Redemption, too, he almost sets aside, 

He leaves us hopeless, wandering far and wide, 

And whether saved or damn'd we canna tell, 

For every man must e'en redeem himsel' ! 

Then on the Resurrection he's clean wrang ; 

" Wherefore," says he, *' lie in your graves sae lang ? 

The speerit is the man, and it ascends 

The very instant that your breathing ends ; 

The body's buried, and will rise nae mair, 

Though a' the horns in H«aven should rowt and rair." 



THE BAPTEESEMENT o' THE BAIRN. 13 

Sometimes he'll glint at Eobbie Burns''s deil, 

As if lie were a decent kind o' cliiel ; 

But to the doonricht Satan o' the Word, 

Wae's me ! he disna pay the least regard. 

And Hell he treats sae brief and counts sae sma' 

That it amounts to nae sic place ava. 

O dear, to think our prayers and holy chaunts, 

And all the self-denyings of us saunts, 

Are not to be repaid by the delight 

Of hearing from that region black as night, 

The yelling, gnashing, and despairing cry 

Of wretches that in fire and brimstane lie ! 

'Twill never do, guidwife ; this daft divine 

Shall ne'er lay hands on bairn o' yours and mine. 

Ye're richt, guidman, rather than hands like his 
Baj^teese the bairn, we'll keep it as it is — 
For aye an outlin' wi' its kith and kin — 
A hottentot, a heathen steep'd in sin ! 

Sin, did ye say, guidwife ? ay, there again 
Our minister's the erringest of men. 
Original sin he almost lauchs to scorn, 
And says the purest thing's a babe new born, 



14 



Quite free from guile, corruption, guilt, and all 
The curses of a veesionary fall — • 
Yes, " veesionary," was his very word ! 
Bapteese our bairn ! it's morally absurd ! 

Then, Andra, we'll just let the baptism be, 
And pray to Heaven the bairn may never dee. 
If Providence, for ends known to itsel', 
Has ower us placed this darken'd infidel, 
Let's trust that Providence will keeji us richt. 
And aiblins turn our present dark to licht. 

Meggie, my woman, ye're baith richt and wrang : 
Trust Providence, but dinna sit ower lang 
In idle hope that Providence will bring 
Licht to your feet, or ony ither thing. 
The Lord helps them that strive as weel as trust, 
While idle faith gets naething but a crust. 
So says this heathen man — the only truth 
We've ever gotten frae his graceless mooth. 
Let's use the means, and Heaven will bless the end 
And, Meggie, this is what I now intend — 
That you and I, the morn's morn, go forth 
Bearing the bairn along unto the north, 



15 



Like favoured ones of old, until we find 
A man of upriclit life, and godly mind, 
Sound in the faith, matured in all his powers, 
Fit to bapteese a weel-born bairn like ours. — 
Now then, the parritch — flesh maun e'en be fed — 
And I'll wale out a chapter ; — syne to bed. 



Eh, but the mornin's gi-and ! that mottled gray 
Is certain promise o' a famous day. 
But Meggie, lass, you're gettin' tired, I doot ; 
Gie me the bairn ; we'll tak it time aboot. 

I'm no that tilled, and yet the road looks lang ; 
But Andra, man, whar do you mean to gang ? 

No very far ; just north the road a wee. 
To Leuchars manse ; I'se warrant there we'll see 
A very saunt — the Reverend Maister AVhyte — 
Most worthy to perform the sacred rite ; 
A man of holy zeal, sound as a bell, 
In all things perfect as the Word itsel' ; 
Strict in his goings out and comings in ; 
A man that knoweth not the taste of sin — 
Except original. Yon's the manse. Wi' him 



16 THE BAPTEESEMENT o' THE BAIRN. 

There's nae new reaclin's o' the text, nae whim 

That veetiates the essentials of our creed, 

Bnt scriptural in thought, in word, and deed. — 

Now let's walk up demurely to the door. 

And gie a modest knock — one knock, no more. 

Or else they'll think we're gentles. Some ane's here. 

Stand back a little, Meggie, and I'll speir 

If Maister Whyte Eraw day, my lass ! we came 

To see if Mr. Whyte— 

He's no at hame ! 
But he'll be back sometime the nicht, belyve ; 
He started afF, I reckon, aboot five 
This mornin', to the fishin' — 

Save us a' ! 
We're ower lang here — come, Meggie, come awa. 
Let's shake the very dust frae afF our feet ; 
A fishin' minister ! And so discreet 
In all his ministrations ! But he's young — 
Maybe this shred of wickedness has clung 
This lang aboot him, as a warning sign 
That he should never touch your bairn and mine — 
We'll just hand north to Forgan manse, and get 
Auld Doctor Maule — in every way most fit — 



THE BAPTEESEMENT o' THE BATRN. 17 

To consecrate tlie wean. He's a Divine 
Of ankl exjiei-ience, and stood high langsyne, 
Ere we were born ; in doctrine clear and soiuid, 
He'll no be at the fishin', I'll be bound. 
Wae's me, to think the pious Maister Wliyte 
In catchin' troots should tak the least delight ! 

But, Andra, man, just hover for a blink, 
He mayna be sae wicked as we think. 
What do the Scriptures say ? There we are told 
Andrew and Peter, James and John of old. 
And others mentioned in the Holy Word, 
Were fishermen — the chosen of the Lord. 

I'm weel aware o' that, but ye forget. 
That when the Aj)ostles fished 'twas wi' the net. 
They didna fiee about like Hieland kerns, 
Wi' hair lines, and lang wands whuppin' the burns ; 
No, no, they fished i' the lake o' Galilee, 
A Bible loch, almost as big's the sea. 
They had their cobles, too, wi' sails and oars. 
And plied their usefu' trade beyond the shores. 
Besides, though first their trade was catchin' fish — 
An honest craft as ony ane could wish — 



18 THE BAPTEESEMENT o' THE BAIRN. 

They gave it up when called upon, and then, 
Though they were fishers still, it was o' men. 
But this young Maister Wliyte first got a call 
To fish for men, and — oh, how sad his fall ! — 
The learned, pious, yet unworthy skoot 
Neglects his sacred trust to catch a troot ! 
Now here comes Forgan manse amang the trees, 
A cozie spot, weel skoogit frae the breeze. 
We'll just \valk ane by ane up to the door. 
And knock and do the same's we did before. 
The doctor's been a bachelor a' his life ; 
Ye'cl almost tak the servant for his wife. 
She's such command ower a' that's said and dune- 
Hush ! this maun be the cheepin' o' her shune. — 
How do you do, mem ? there's a bonnie day, 
And like to keep sae. We've come a' the way 
Frae Edenside to get this bairn bapteesed 
By Doctor Maule, if you and he be pleased. 

We've no objections ; but the Doctor's gone 
A-shootin' : since the shootin' time cam' on 
Ae minute frae the gun he's hardly been. 

The Lord protect us ! Was the like e'er seen ? 



THE BAPTEESEMENT o' THE BAIRN. 19 

A shootin' minister ! Think sliame, aukl wife ! 

Were he the only minister in Fife 

He'd never lay a hand on bairn o' mine ; 

Irreverent poachin', poother-an'-lead Divine ! 

Let's shake the dust frae aff our shune again ; 

Come, Meggie, come awa ; I hardly ken 

Which o' the twa's the warst ; but I wad say 

The shootin' minister — he's auld and gray, 

Gray in the service o' the kirk, and hence 

Wi' age and service should hae o;athered sense. 

Now let's consider, as we stap alang :,- 

Doon to the Waterside we needna gang : 

I'm tauld the ministers preach naething there 

But cauld morality — new-fangled ware 

That draps all faith and trusts to warks alone, 

That gangs skin-deep, but never cleaves the bone. 

We'll just haud ower — for troth it's wearin' late — 

By Pickletillim, and then west the gate 

To auld Kilmeny — it slants hafflins liame, 

Which, for the sake o' this toom, grumblin' wame, 

I wish were nearer. Hech ! to save my saul, 

I never can get ower auld Doctor Maule ! 

It plainly cowes all things aneath the sun ! 

Whaur, Meggie, whaur's your Scripture for the gun ? 



20 



Od, Andra, as we've come alang the road 
I've just been kirnin' tliroiigh the Word o' God, 
Baith auld and new, as far as L can mind. 
But not the least iota can T find. 
That maks the Doctor waur than Maister Whyte, 
And on his ain auld head brings a' the wyte. 

It does. The Word gives not the merest hint 
0' guns, an' poother's never mentioned in't. 
They had their bows and arrows, and their slings. 
And implements o' war — auld-fashioned things, 
I reckon — for the dingin' doon o' toons. 
And speai'S, and swords, and clubs for crackin' croons ; 
But as for guns and shot, puir hares to kill, 
There's nae authority, look whaur ye will — 
Losh, see ! the sun's gaen red, and looks askance ; 
The gloamin' fa's ; but here's Kilmeny manse. 

Hark, Andra ! is that music that we hear, 
Louder an' louder, as we're dramn' near ? 
It's naething else ! I'se Avager my new goon 
The ministei-'s frae hame, and some wild loon 
Comes fiddlin' to the lasses. O, the jads ! 
The minister's awa — they've in their lads, 



THE BAPTEESEMENT O THE BAIllN. 21 

And turned the very manse into a barn, 
Fiddlin' and dancin' — drinkin' too, I'se warran' ! 

Tod, Meggie, bnt ye're riclit ; I fear ye're riclit ; 
And here's gray gloamin' sinkin' into nicht, 
While we're as near oiTr errand's end as whan 
This mornin' wi' the sunrise we began. 
We'll e'en gang roond upon the kitchen door, 
And catch the ill-bred herpies at their splore ! 
Hiish ! saftly : 'od, I dinna hear their feet, 
And yet the fiddle lilts fu' deft and sweet. 
It's no the little squeakin' fiddle, though ; 
But ane that bums dowfi" in its wame and low. 
They hear us speakin' — here's the lassie comii '. — 
The minister's frae hame, I hear, my woman ? 

The minister frae hame ! he's nae sic thing ; 
He's ben the lioose there, piayin' himsel' a spring. 

The minister a fiddler ! sinfu' shame ! 
I'd sooner far that he had been frae hame. 
Though he should live as lang's Methusalem, 
I'll never bring anither bairn to him ; 
Nor will he get the ane we've brocht ; na, na ; 



22 THE BAPTEESEMENT o' THE BAIRN. 

Come, Meggie, tak' the bairn and come awa ; 
I wadna let him look upon its face : 
Young woman, you're in danger ; leave this place ! 
Hear how the sinner rasps the rosiny strings, 
And nocht but reels and ither warldly springs ! 
Let's shake the dust ance mair frae afF our shune, 
And leave the pagan to his wicked tune. 

But, Andra, let's consider : it's sae late, 
We canna now gang ony ither gate, 
And as we're here we'll better just haud back 
And get the bairn bapteesed. What does it mak' 
Altho' he scrapes a fiddle now and then ? 
King David was preferred above all men, 
And yet 'twas known he played upon the harp ; 
And stringed instruments, baith flat and sharp, 
Are mentioned many a time in Holy Writ. 
I dinna think it signifees a bit — 
The more especially since, as we hear. 
It's no the little thing sae screech and skeer 
That drunken fiddlers play in barns and booths, 
But the big gaucy fiddle that sae soothes 
The speerit into holiness and calm, 
That e'en some kirks hae thocht it mends the psalm* 



THE BAPTEESEMENT o' THE BAIRN. 23 

Tempt not the man, O woman ! Meggio, I say — 
Get tliee behind us, Satan ! — come away ! 
For he, the Evil One, has aye a sicht 
Of arguments, to turn wrang into richt. 
He's crammed wi' pleasant reasons that assail 
Weak woman first, and maistly aye prevail ; 
Then she, of course, must try her wiles on man, 
As Eve on Adam did. Thus sin began, 
And thus goes on, I fear, unto this day, 
In spite of a' the kirks can do or say. 
And what can we expect but sin and woe, 
Wlien manses are the hotbeds where they grow ? 
I grieve for j)uir Kilmeny, and I grieve 
For Leuchars and for Forgan — yea, believe 
For Sodom and Gomorrah there will be 
A better chance than ony o' the three. 
Especially Kilmeny. I maintain — 
For a' your reasons, sacred and profane, 
The minister that plays the fiddle's waur 
Than either o' the ither twa, by far. 
And yet, weak woman, ye wad e'en return 
And get this fiddler to bapteese our bairn ! 
Na, na ; we'll tak the bairn to whence it came, 
And get our ain brave minister at hame. 



24 THE BAPTEESEMENT o' THE BAIRN. 

Altho' he may be wrang on mony a point, 
And his salvation scheme sair out o' joint, 
He lays it cloon without the slightest fear. 
And wins the heart because he's so sincere. 
And he's a man that disna need to care 
Wha looks into his life ; there's naething there, 
Nae sin, nae slip of either hand or tongue 
That ane can tak and say, " Thou doest wrong." 
His theologic veesion may be skew'd ; 
But, though the broken cistern he has hew'd 
May let the water through it like a riddle. 
He neither fishes, shoots, nor plays the fiddle. 



€li! IMW^ Inninitntinii uii tjie X\m 
flf Ijis avjiittiL 



My Whittle's lost ! Yet, I dinna ken : 
Lat's ripe — lat's ripe my pouch again. 
Na ! I lia'e turn'cl ower a' that's iii'd, 
But ne'er a Whittle can I find : — 
A bit cauk, and a bit red keel — 
The clamji I twisted aff my heel — 
A bit auld shoe, to mak' a sling — 
A peerie, and a peerie-string — 
The big auld button that I faund 
When crossin' through the fallow land — 
A bit lead, and a pickle thrums — 
And, last of a', some ait-cake crumbs. 

Yet aye I turn them o'er and o'er, 
Thinkin' I'd been mista'en before ; 
And aye my hand, wi' instinctive ettle, 
Gangs to my pouch to seek my Whittle. 



26 THE laddie's lamentation, etc. 

I doot it's lost ! — liow, whar, and whan, 
Is niair than I can nnderstan' : — 
Whether it j amp out o' my pouch 
That time I loupit ower the ditch, — 
Or whether I didna tak' it up 
When I cut a handle for my wliup, — 
Or put it in at the wrang slit, 
And it fell through, doon at my fit. 
But mony a gate I've been since then, 
Ower hill and hallow, muir and fen, — 
Outside, inside, butt and ben : 
I doot I'll never see'd again ! 



Made o' the very best o' metal, 
I thocht riclit muckle o' my Whittle ! 
It aye cam' in to be o' use, 
Whether out-by or in the hoose, — 
For slicin' neeps, or whangs o' cheese, 
Or cuttin' out my name on trees ; 
To v/liyte a stick, or cut a string, 
To mak' windmills, or onything — 
Wi' it, I was richt whare'er I gaed. 
And a' was wrang when I didna hae'd. 



THE laddie's lamentation, ETC. 27 

I ken na how I'll do witlioot it ; 
And, faith, I'm niichty ill aboot it ! 
I micht as weel live wantin' vittle 
As try to live withoot my Whittle. 

Yon birkies scamperin' doon the road, — 
I'd like to join the joysome crowd; 
The very air rings wi' their daffin', 
Their rollickin', hallooin', laughin' ! 
Flee on, my lads, I'll bide my lane ; 
My heart hings heavy as a stane ; 
My feet seem tied to ane anither ; 
I'm clean dung doited a' thogither. 
Hear, how they rant, and roar, and rattle ! 
Like me, they liimia lost a Whittle. 

It Avas the only thing o' worth 
That I could ca' my ain on earth : 
And aft I wad admeerin' stand, 
Haudin' the Whittle in my hand ; 
Breathin' upon its sheenin' blade, 
To see how quick the breath wad fade ; 
And weel I kent it wad reveal 
The blade to be o' richt guid steel. 



{8 THE laddie's lamentation, etc. 

Piiir Whittle ! wliar will ye be now ? 
In wood ? on lea ? on hill ? in howe ? 
Lyin' a' cover'd ower wi' grass ? 
Or sinkin' doon in some morass ? 
Or may ye be already fund, 
And in some ither body's hand ? 
Or will ye lie till, misted o'er. 
Ye look like dug-up dirks of yore ? — 
When we're a' dead, and sound eneuch, 
Ye may be turn'd up by the pleuch ! 
Or fund i' the middle o' a peat, 
And sent to Edinbruch in state ! 
There to be shown — a wondrous sicht — 
The Jocteleg o' Wallace Wicht ! 

Thus, a' the comfort I can bring 
Frae thee, thou lost, lamented thing ! 
Is to believe that, on a board, 
Wi' broken spear, and dirk, and sword. 
And shield, and helm, and ancient kettle, 
May some day lie my ruisty Whittle ! 



€^ M^ iWt'B iCainnit far Ijn €m. 



O, wae's my heart, piiir Doddie's dead ! 
A better coo ne'er crapt the mead ; 
'Twas a' by her I wan my bread — 
O the worthy beastie ! 

She baited by the green road-side, 
Or by the biirnie's wimplin' tide ; 
Wi' her I didna need to bide — 
O the trusty beastie ! 

Content wi' thrissle, girse, or thorn, 
She wadna touch the mester's corn. 
But luit it ripen and be shorn — 
O the thochtfu' beastie ! 

She never haikit like a hound, 
But keepit aye on hamely ground. 
And never needit to be bound — 
O tlie cannie beastie ! 



30 THE AULD wife's LAMENT FOR HER COW. 

Nac horns had she, nor bell nor hawk, 
But dark-broon sides and gowden back, 
Her sonsie wame as white as cank — 
O the bonnie beastie ! 

Her milk like yellow cream distil I'd, 
Three times a-day the cog she fill'd, 
And but a wee while gaed she yell'd — 
O the usefu' beastie ! 

She was to me baith milk and bread, 
But, wae's my heart, puir Doddie's dead, 
And I may lay my weary head 
Doon aside my beastie ! 



3nliii ml €iWWB Bisptitt 



John Davison and Tibbie, liis wife, 

Sat toastiii' their taes ae niclit, 
When something startit in the fiuir, 

And blinkit by their sicht. 

*' Guidwife," quoth John, " did ye see that moose ? 

Whar sorra was the cat ? " 
" A moose ? " — " Ay, a moose." — " Na, na, Guidman,- 

It wasna a moose, 'twas a rat." 

" Ow, ow, Guidwife, to think ye've been 

Sae lang aboot the hoose, 
An' no to ken a moose frae a rat ! 

Yon wasna a rat ! 'twas a moose." 

" I've seen mair mice than you, Guidman — 
An' what think ye o' that ? 



Sae liaiicl your tongue an' say nae mair — 
I tell ye, it was a rat." 

" 3fe hand my tongue for you, Guiclwife ! 

I'll be mester o' this lioose — 
I saw't as plain as een could see't, 

An' I tell ye, it was a moose ! " 

^' If you're tlie mester o' the hoose. 

It's I'm the mistress o't ; 
An' I ken best what's in the hoose — 

Sae I tell ye, it was a rat." 

" AVeel, weel, Guidwife, gae mak' the brose, 

An' ca' it what ye please." 
So up she rose, and made the brose, 

While John sat toastin' his taes. 

They supit, and supit, and supit the brose, 
And aye their lips play'd smack ; 

They supit, and supit, and supit the brose, 
Till their lugs began to crack. 

*' Sic fules we were to fa' oot, Guidwife, 
Aboot a moose " — " A what ! 



JOHN AND Tibbie's dispute. 33- 

It's a lee ye tell, an' I say again 
It wasna a moose, 'twas a rat ! " 

" Wad ye ca' me a leear to my very face ? 

IVIy faitli, but ye craw croose ! 
I tell ye, Tib, I never will bear 't — 

'Twas a moose !"—" 'Twas a rat ! "— « 'Twas a 
moose ! " 

Wi' her spoon sbe strack liim ower the pow — 

" Ye dour auld doit, tak' that — 
Gae to your bed, ye canker'd sumj^h — • 

'Twas a rat!" — "'Twas a moose ! "—^^ 'Twas a 
rat ! " 

She sent the brose caup at his heels, 

As he hirpled ben the hoose ; 
Yet he shoved oot his head as he steekit the door, 

And cried, " 'Twas a moose ! 'twas a moose ! " 

But, when the carle was fast asleep, 

She paid him back for that, 
And roar'd into his sleepin' lug, 

" 'Twas a rat ! 'twas a rat ! 'twas a rat ! " 



34 

The de'il be wi' me if I tliink 

It was a beast ava ! — 
Neist mornin', as she sweepit the fluir. 

She fauncl weo Johnnie's ba' ! 



(DEt ^m 3iilir €nnii. 



Our ain auld toon ! O, our ain aulcl toon ! 

There is magic in tliy name, there is music in the soun' ! 

When I look upo' thy hallans that sae smeeky are and 

dun — 
When I look upo' thy spires, as they pierce into 

the air — 
When I look upo' thy winnocks, as they glisten i' the 

sun — 
There comes a feeling ower me that I'm hardly fit 

to bear ; 
And the tear is in my e'e, for the day it has come 

roun' 
When I maun turn my back upon our ain auld toon ! 

When I look at the auld steeple, and listen to its bell, 
That seems an eldritch tale fu' dowie-like to tell ; 



36 OUR AIN AULD TOON. 

And when I look alang tlie clorty crookit streets, 
And see the artless bairnies, sae frolicksome, at 

play,— 
There comes a thrill within me, and my heart wi' 

rapture beats, 
As I think upo' my bairnhood — a short-lived siinnie 

day ;— 
For these were a' my haunts when I was a careless 

loon, 
And never had a thocht to leave our ain auld toon. 

But ah ! we've little skill in the workings o' the mind; 
It is fickle at the best, and it changes like the wind ; 
The thochts, and the fancies, and the feelings o' the 

bairn 
Grow dim and fade awa' as years come ower the 

frame. 
Our life is like a day, and in its sunnie morn 

Our wishes are content wi' the pleasures of our 

hame ; 
But when the morning's past, and our life is near its 

noon. 
We may tak' anither thocht, and leave our ain auld 

toon. 



OUR AIN AULD TOON. 37 

When I was a wee-bit laddie, and wanton'd ower the lea, 

The singin' o' the birdie, or the buininin' o' the bee 

Wad ha'e brocht a charm npon me, aud fixed me to 
the spot, 

And there I'd stand entranced, wi' the tear into 

my e'e : 

And then the torments o' the schule I easily forgot, — 

For the sylvan haunts o' woods and fields were 

sweeter far to me : 

And aft on bonnie simmer days I'd like to play the 

troon ; 

For the sun-glints seem'd to wile me frae our ain auld 

toon. 

But, our ain auld toon, oh I couldna leave ye lang ! 
Just as far's yon birken wood, and nae farther wad ] 

gang; 
Or whar yon bickerin' burnie gaes birlin' doon the 

brae, 
And clatters a' the day, as it seems to chase itsel' ; 
Or westward by yon bonnie green at gloamin' wad 

I gae, 
When the wavelets come a-wooing to the beach, 

their love to tell ; 



38 OUR AIN AULD TOON. 

Or I'd sclammer up yon liill, and frae its tap look 

doon 
Into tlie very heart of our ain auld toon. 

But the day is come at last, e'en the very moment's 

near ; 
And my friends are on the craig, and the boat is at 

the pier. 
I try to hide the tear as it steals into my e'e, 

And I try to crush the sigh as it rises in my breast ; 
But to see sae mony friends a' gather'd here for me, 
Brings waefu' notions ower me, and they winna bide 
at rest. 

my head is a' bambazed, and my heart is in a swoon — 

1 maun confess I'm wae to leave our ain auld toon ! 

I left it ance before, and laith I was to part ; 

For youth's first smile o' love had begun to warm my 

heart ; 
And though I left our ain auld toon, my heart was left 

behind ; 
And my thochts dwelt aye on ane, and I liked to lisp 

her name ; 
And a' the lee-lang day, in love-sick grief I pined ; 



OUR AIN AUUD TOON. 39 

And at midniclit's dreamy liour my sick heart socht 
its liame ; — 
But my time was thrown awa ', for I couldna settle doon 
Till I wan back again to our ain auld toon. 



O love, ye are a bonnie thing when ye are young and 

new; 
Ye saften a' within us, and ye mak' us pure and true ; 
And ye flush'd ower my young heart sae bonnilie the 

while. 
Like a smile upo' the face of a bair-n when asleep ; 
For like a smile ye gather'd, but ye faded like a smile ! 
And I ken na why ye faded, since ye were sae pure 

and deep. — 
Though my hour o' love was lang, yet it left me unco 

soon ! 
Now ii'^ friendsliip mak'sme wae to leave our ain auld 

toon. 

But the boat has left the pier, and she waddles ower 

the firth. 
And our ain auld toon to me seems the bonniest spot 

on earth : 



40 OUR ATN AULD TOON. 

My fi-iends seem dearer too, tliougli to me they aye were 

dear ; 
And the joys I've haen wi' them come again upo' 

my mind : 
How can I do but greet to see them on the pier, 
As they daunder slowly iij^, and wave and look 

behind? 
And when I think on what I've dune, my heart it gi'es 

a stoun' — 
O, am I no a fule to leave our ain auld toon ? 

Now we maun leave the boat, for the water we lia'e 

crost ; 
And amid the hurry-burry I seem as I were lost : 
I dinna hear around me the traveller's reproach 

On some unlucky chields that against his wish ha'e 

ackit : 
While I should see my luggage safely carried to the 

coach, 
I leav't to ony ane that mav ha'e the will to 

tak' it. 
Nae guard, nae coachman do I see, nor hear the 

trumpet's soun' — 
My heart, my soul is centred in our ain auld toon ! 



OUR AIN AULD TOON. 41 

I am mounted on the coacli, liigli npo' the backmost 

seat; 
And the crackin' o' the whup, and the gallopin' o' feet, 
And the soundin' o' the horn, and the birrin' o' the 

wheels, 
Tend to alter for a while the tenor o' my mind. 
We pass by mony a scene, but my heart nae interest 

feels ; 
There's just ae scene that / care for, to a' the rest 

I'm blind ; 
And at ilk heicht upon the road, I rise and look aroun'. 
Just to get anither sicht of our ain auld toon ! 

But I shanna see't again, for we're past the hinmost 

heicht. 
And e'en the very Law, it has nodded out o' sicht ! 
I look fu' lang and wistfully upo' yon cloud o' smoke 
That hovers ower the spot where the dear auld toon 

doth lie ! 
O my heart is grite and sair, and I feel as I wad choke ! 
I wad gi'eet, but wad be seen, and I fain wad hide 

the sigh ! 
But I canna keep it in, as I turn and sit me doon, 
For I canna get ae blink of our ain auld toon ! 



42 OUR AIN AULD TOON. 

Our ain aiild toon ! O, our ain auld toon ! 

There is magic in the name, there is music in the soun' ! 

Though vanish 'd from my sight, I can image it in 

thought. 
And live again the haj)py days that I have lived 

before ; 
And in my dreams by night I will seek the blessed spot, 
Though I should wake to sorrowing upon a foreign 

shore ! 
O the sun may cease to sheene, and the warld to rin 

roun' ; 
But I never, never can forget our ain auld toon ! 



51nft 3nlju fouu. 



AuLD Jolm Broon, lie's a hunder near ! 

He says he'll be dead ere the tail o' the year ; 

But for twa or three years he has said the same, 

And we ha'e him yet in our cosie hame — 

A snug cottar hoose on the edge o' a muir, 

Wi' a theekit ruif and an earthen fluir. 

In the big arm-chair, by the ingle-cheek. 
He sits a' day amid the blue reek ; 
His auld broad bonnet upon his croon. 
And twa-three white locks stragglin' doon : 
His big auld shune that were made lang syne. 
Ere his feet and knits began to crine ; 
His ribbit stockins o' a purple hue ; 
His cloutit knee-breeks, his auld coat o' blue, 
Wi' buttons on't like the rising mune — 
Gude sakes ! that coat will ne'er gang dune ! 
The lee-lang day, and aye the auld seat, 
Wi' his hands on his staff, and his staff 'tween his 
feet. 



44 AULD JOHN BROON. 

And bis chin on his hand, and his head bent doon, 
Sunk into himsel', sits Aiild John Broon. 

His words are few ; for he seems to care 
But little for this warld and a' its gear : 
It may be his mind is maist part awa' 
To yon Heaven that will ere lang ha'e it a' : 
But at times it comes back, wi' a beauteous glow, 
And ower his auld features seems to flow, 
Laving them like a limpid stream. 
While youth comes ower him like a dream. 
But it flushes awa', as it came, and then 
He sinks back into hinisel' again. 
And while he'll fa' into a dozing sleep, 
Now liclit and flickery, and now deep, deep ; 
Then he'll wauken and yawn, fu' aft and wide. 
And shake his head slowly frae side to side, 
And mutter strange things into liimsel' 
That to us hae neither head nor tail. 
The bairns creep stealthily round his chair, 
And look up wi' a wondersome air — 
Wi' awe-struck e'e, and arch'd e'e-brou. 
And staunin'-up hair, and gapin' mou'. — 
He looks at them wi' a glitterin' e'e, 
But you caima weel tell whether he can see. — 



AULD JOHN BROON. 45 

Though little he says, and does naething ava, 
He is strangely felt by ane and a'. 

Aiild men and bairns are the gods of earth, 
When ower aiild or ower young to utter forth 
The soul within them ; for we feel 
A presence that words could not reveal ; 
And they work mair deeply upon the heart 
Than a learned man wi' a' his art : 
A dottle auld carle, or a babbling wean, 
Into the midst o' yon wise folk ta'en. 
Wad absorb the thochts of every ane. 
Had we een that could read, and heads that could 

learn. 
We shud get deep lessons frae the auld man and bairn. 

Auld John Broon, he sits at the fire ; 
Ye wad think he had nae ither desire, 
But he's neither deaf nor blind outricht. 
When on his dull hearin', or his dim sicht, 
The voices and glances o' Nature alicht. 
On simmer days, when we are a' gane 
To the field, and he sits dozing alane — 
Wi' nane but the lassie to mind the pat, 
Tak' care o' the bairns, or the like o' that — 



46 ■ AULD JOHN BROON. 

A sun-glint bursts tlii-ougli the winnock-pane, 

And fa's ower liis feet, and on the hearth-stane ; 

It warms his heart, and he lifts his een, 

That glitter as he looks up to the sunsheen : 

And he harks ! for the laverock's notes on high 

Come doon like rain-draps fresh frae the sky ; 

And he hears the croak o' the passing craw, 

Now harsh, now fading far awa' ; 

And the clamour o' sparrows comes to his ear ; 

The keckle o' the hens, and chanticleer, 

Flappin' his wings and crawin' sae shrill. 

That he startles the gray rocks, asleep on the hill. 

Ilk tiling bursts out into joyousness — 

Wha could bide in the hoose on a day like this ?- 

E'en restless grows the auld man there, 

And he langs to get out into the sweet air : 

Then wi' his staff and the lassie thegither, 

He reaches the door, leanin' on her shuither. 

Ayont the door-cheek is a stane bench, where 

She lats him cannily doon wi' care. 

Bathed in sunsheen and balmy air, 
He seems to enjoy the green earth ance mair, 
Wakenin' frae out o' his aged swoon, 



AULD JOHN BROON. 47 

Maist tliinkiii' liiiiisel' to be young Joliii Brooii ! — 

Were his limbs as tliey were wont to be, 

He wad up and dance aboot wi' glee : 

His will loiips np, but liis banes keep liim doon, 

And tell liini that he is auld John Broon ! 

Sweet day, ye ha'e dune what nae thing else can, — 
Ye ha'e brought back the speerit o' this auld man. 
But it comes and goes as the weather may be ; 
He droops or looks up like the flower on the lea. 
And ower his existence he has nae power — 
He is guided by the hand that guides the flower. 
Nae count, nae care, nae p.ain has he ; 
He never was ill, and he never will be ; 
And death will come saftly and close his e'e : — 
Spirit slip up — body lie doon — 
That will be the end of Auld J ohn Broon. 



SCOTCH WORDS, 

THE BAPTEESEMENT 
0' THE BAIRN, 

AISTD OTHER POEMS. 



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that, in an age of loose literature, he is, like Scott, and Dickens, and Thackeray, pm-e- 
minded. He va-itcs better English (because more imaginative and loftier) than 
Charles Reade or any of that ilk. And while WiUcie Collins outdoes him in plot, he 
oul 'oe? Wilkie Collins and the rest of the plotters in deUcacy and sweetness of touch. 
Should George MacDonald rise hereafter above this present point, high and good as 
it is, he will merit and receive distinguished praise. And, as a man hardly art the 
entrance of middle life, there is no reason why this should not be. His hand has not 
lost its cunning, and his eye is still undimmed." — Saibner's Moiiihly. 



*j^* For Sale by all Booksellers, or will be mailed to any address, postage paid, 
on receipt of price, by the Publishers, 

&EORGE ROUTLED&E & SONS, 

416 Broome Street, Ne^A^ Tork. 



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